Chapter 5 #3
I wonder if a woman has ever traced that ink with the tip of her finger as she lies naked in bed with a naked Noah, post coitus.
I wonder if he’s ever held his hand out to a woman and demanded that she trace the curve of his ink with her tongue.
If so, did he cup her jaw? With those strong, virile hands, did he hold her head with one hand and watch her obey him, and lap at his skin?
I recross my legs to dislodge some of the quick brewing tension in my groin.
Tension and desire that I blissfully ignore as my eyes slide up the length of his arm, landing on his shoulder.
A few pieces of hair stick beneath the neck of his t-shirt, and jealousy spreads through my jaw as I envision Tara Shae rocking to her toes, slipping one finger against his neck, tugging the soft strands free before pressing a kiss to his cheek.
“Last week we discussed the often porous boundary between literary and popular fiction. But can anyone tell me how we defined popular fiction?” Whiskey eyes stretch across the class, and to my surprise, many hands shoot up.
Noah takes his time selecting who will have their chance to answer, and eventually says, “Nick. Tell me how we defined popular fiction without rereading your notes from last week.”
Nick, a student two rows down from where I’m sitting, straightens in his seat, pride filling his shoulders as he replies.
“Popular fiction are works written for mass audiences,” the student starts, and I notice most of the others bob their heads, agreeing.
Noah nods, but keeps his fist under his chin, pointer finger dutifully pressed to the center of his lips as he silently encourages the student to give more.
Without hesitation, Nick continues. “They emphasize plot, accessibility, and entertainment value over stylistic experimentation or psychological depth.” Noah points, not at anything but moreso, points to lead Nick to a final thought.
“And,” Nick smiles, “not all popular fiction novels fall under these definitions, but most do.”
Noah brings his hands together in a singular clap, without actually making the noise. “That’s right.” He looks out over the room. “Keeping that in mind, a big reason why I really like detective fiction is that it kind of subtly merges the two types of fiction together.”
“Non-fiction and fiction?” A student in the front row questions.
Noah shakes his head. “Popular and literary,” he says, wearing a trace of a smile. “Literary fiction serves a completely separate purpose, but detective stories find a very imperceptible way of blending the two.”
Noah slips one hand in his pocket, and I envision Tara Shae again, slipping her hand into his pocket affectionately, both of their hands coming out tangled, fingers woven together.
“Professor Mercer,” Noah calls, and the entire auditorium rustles as heads swivel to face me.
My eyes lock on Noah’s, and the little crooked grin that curves his lips has my lower half pounding.
“Tell our students how detective fiction blends the two.” He folds his arms over his chest, and stands, feet apart.
My mouth goes dry, but I nudge my glasses up my nose with a knuckle, clear my throat, and answer.
“Gladly,” I say, my voice huskier than normal. “Detective stories exemplify commercial formulas that guarantee reader satisfaction while exploring and often testing the capacity of genre fiction to interrogate social realities.”
Noah’s head tips back, and the thick ridge of his Adam’s apple bobs wildly as his uproarious, deep laughter echoes through the dark space.
The class chuckles along with him, and while I know he’s going to tease me about my meticulously worded answer, for the life of me, I can’t stop wondering if anyone has ever licked up this throat, and tasted his Adam’s apple.
How many hickies has he had right there?
Has anyone ever kissed his pulse and made his voice disappear into something broken?
“Such a proper response from Professor Mercer,” he says, gracing me with one last smirk before he refocuses on his students.
He launches into a talk about Edgar Allan Poe and Arthur Conan Doyle, and I discover one of my strong suits: dividing my brain into two tasks.
The first task is listen enough to take some notes that I can later rewrite into a detailed peer review, and the second (which has immediately usurped the first task in importance) is envisioning all the ways in which Noah Ryan has been consumed by sexual partners all while I stuff down an irrational, illogical, private jealousy.
After twenty minutes and two pages of notes, Noah begins talking about the grittier, more realism-based detective stories that push boundaries of popular fiction.
And I begin thinking about what Noah must look like while he’s reading.
And though I know professors aren’t loaded (why does everyone think we are?), I can’t help but envision him strewn across a Victorian fainting couch, covered in rich tapestry.
Sweat glistens over his bare chest, his hands holding a spread book, one long leg hooked over the back, the other draped over the fabric, foot pressed to the floor.
A woman approaches, and Noah tips his head back, opening his mouth while his eyes never stop consuming every word on the page.
The woman, blonde and curvy, drops grapes into his waiting mouth, and Noah brings one hand to his lips, catching one.
He bites, sucking the juice from the fruit, a trickle running down his chin.
“Chandler did it unlike the others. He showed how easy it is to turn from law-abiding citizen to corrupt, and his mysteries weren’t perfect puzzles that easily fit together, which is what we saw and got comfortable with in early mystery stories.
But Chandler pressed the reader to both solve the mystery but also, consider the environment, consider reality, and decide with those factors in mind. ”
I jot down Raymond Chandler in my notes, and draw a line to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, then write Philip Marlowe next to that.
Then I lock back into Noah, catching him at the tail end of a conversation with a student in the front row, where they openly discuss what people seek to get from this type of fiction.
“Whodunit books deliver catharsis you can’t get in many other forms of fiction,” the female student says, then lowers her voice when she adds, “except romance. They have guaranteed happily ever afters.”
Someone makes a comment about romance not being a real genre, and Noah quickly corrects that take, saying, “Callirhoe. The oldest and longest standing romantic prose. Written in the first century AD. Romance has been around longer than other genres, not to mention, romance novels deliver exactly what you want a fiction novel to do: explore the human condition. And romance does this, with vulnerability, intimacy, emotional intelligence, and, quite honestly, hope. So in this classroom, at this university, we support and cheer on romance, because it is valid, important, and at this point, critical to fiction as a whole.”
There’s some rounds of clapping, and then Noah launches into their assignment, getting into the history of the author they’re currently reading and their previous attempts at publishing.
And I launch into a sweltering vision of Noah making love to a faceless woman, her body naked, completely starfished, all for him.
The sheets are satin, crinkled from her hungered grip, dark in spots from their sweat, sweat that came from laborious love making and intense passion.
His hair, normally falling over his eyes, is kept back by that same sweat, shiny and dark.
He stalks over her, corded arms and strong hands holding himself above her as he moves, letting his thick cock slip over her mound, repeatedly.
His lips are wrenched in a piercing smirk as he drops his mouth to her ear.
I can’t see her face, but she laughs, bare tits jiggling with her plight.
He reaches between them and seats himself where he needs to be, and their playfulness falls away as he surges inside of her.
She gasps, and Noah lets loose an edacious moan that has my toes curling in my shoes.
The last thing I see are the round, muscular globes of his bare ass clenching as he thrusts, giving her all of him as deep as he can.
Noah laughs just then, bantering with a student while unbeknownst to him, snapping me from my intoxicating fantasy. I have no idea why I just envisioned those things but a quick glance at the round clock on the wall tells me I have exactly three minutes to finish filling out this paper.
I get to work, and when Noah dismisses his students, my hand is cramped, the ink is smeared, but it’s done. I take time stuffing my pen away, sliding my phone back into my bag, and mostly, waiting for my out of pocket and absolutely inappropriate erection to subside.
I have no idea what’s going on with me today.
His cedar scent knocks me back in my seat as Noah sinks into the collapsible seat next to me. “Well, how’d it go?”
I lift the clipboard, aware of my hand carefully placed over as much of the notes as possible. “Good. Done. I’ll have the typed version tomorrow morning.”
I’m two seconds away from being free from this, from being able to get through my lecture, then slink out and catch a coffee and some fresh air, some perspective before I’m in the office with him all day. Forget all of this.
Then Noah snatches my clipboard.
I reach for it, feeling like a child reaching for his favorite toy that the bully snatched. Noah yanks it back, holding it behind him but over his head, too. The only way I could reach it is if I pressed my chest to his and reached around him.
I won’t be reduced to that.
Adjusting my glasses, I touch my tie and purse my lips. “This is fun but may I have it back now so I can take it home and get it prepared to turn in tomorrow?”